


Angry, Bitter, Scared, Sad

by Anonymous_Authors_Incorporated



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo, and fine i GUESS
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Heaven, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:01:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27668573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anonymous_Authors_Incorporated/pseuds/Anonymous_Authors_Incorporated
Summary: He looked Enjolras in the eyes, and finally he saw. Grantaire wasn’t angry or bitter, he was scared and sad. He gestured heavily at Enjolras, at his heart, where the cockade sat, pinned to the lapel of his signature red jacket.“Is your life just one more lie?” He finished quietly, tears in his eyes.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 15





	Angry, Bitter, Scared, Sad

“Drink with me,” Grantaire sang out, warmly, “to days gone by!”

He smiled around at their friends, waving his bottle at them lightly, before his face twisted bitterly, and his tone became pointed.

“Could it be you fear to die?” Courfeyrac _bolted_ around Combeferre towards Grantaire, but Enjolras got there first, keeping them apart, while Grantaire continued, almost angry.

“Will the world remember you” he spat, panting, “when you fall?”

Enjolras gently pushed his lieutenant back, and turned towards the drunk.

Grantaire slowed, sounding desperate. “Could it be your death means _nothing_ at all?”

He looked Enjolras in the eyes, and finally he saw. Grantaire wasn’t angry or bitter, he was scared and sad. He gestured heavily at Enjolras, at his heart, where the cockade sat, pinned to the lapel of his signature red jacket.

“Is your life just one more lie?” He finished quietly, tears in his eyes.

Grantaire stumbled slightly, and Enjolras rushed forward to catch him, to hold him in his arms, to offer him some comfort. He held the cynic (though perhaps cynic was the wrong word, he was simply scared for them) tightly to his chest, one hand coming up to press into Grantaire’s dark curls, hold his head against his shoulder as one might an infant, and Grantaire’s arms came around him too. He could feel the bottle against his back, but he cared not for it, paying more attention to Grantaire, shaking with tears in his arms.

He lowered them both to the ground, releasing Grantaire enough that he could adjust to hold the other man to his forehead by the back of his neck.

“Listen to me, R,” he said in an undertone, not missing how their friends went on drinking and singing around them. “I promise, we will not die in vain. I will not let us die in vain.”

He leaned back, slightly, trying to look Grantaire in the eye, see if he would listen.

“You are an artist, leave the barricade—go paint. Tell our story. If—”

He pauses.

“The people have not risen. When we die, let not the spark of revolution die with us. Tell our story.”

Grantaire looked at him wretchedly. “And leave you?”

He loosely grasped his bottle, halfway between them. “No.”

Enjolras closed his eyes, unsurprised. “I see.”

He placed a hand upon the wine bottle, and gently took it from the drunk’s grasp. “I’ll return, shortly.”

He stood, looked Grantaire in the eye, and took a defiant sip from the bottle, watching to see the corner of Grantaire’s lip twitch up in a faint mimicry of amusement.

“Vive la revolution! Vive la Republic! Vive la France!”

The bloodied blond watched Grantaire stumble to the front of the room.

Grantaire grinned at him, all teeth and no joy. He turned to the firing squad. “I am one of them. Finish us both at one blow.”

His posture softens, and he looks to Enjolras, now standing beside him. “If you permit it?”

Enjolras intertwined their fingers, then lifted Grantaire’s hand to his lips, pressing his smile into it firmly.

Violent moments later, their hands, blood-slick, slipped apart.

“Drink with me to days gone by,” Grantaire implored Enjolras with a gentle smile. “To the lives that used to be?”

They lifted the bottles to their lips before Enjolras replied.

“At the shrine of friendship never say die,”

They clasped their hands between them, leaning against a barricade.

“Let the wine of friendship never run dry,”

The final words were muffled against each other’s lips, but murmured together nonetheless.

“Here’s to you, and here’s to me!”

**Author's Note:**

> Look I have no excuses. Youtube recommended me a ten minute compilation of Drink With Me but just Enjolras and Grantaire and I got very sad and had to write my feelings. Time to go write a very similar scene for my long fic because now I have _ideas._


End file.
